


stalling for time (we've got none)

by Still_sleepless



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: 1980s, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Closeted Character, Coming of Age, Confusion, Internalized Homophobia, Life Through The Lense Of Youth, M/M, Musical References, Musicals, Retro, Sexual Repression, Skateboarding, set in the eighties
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-01-08 05:46:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21230786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_sleepless/pseuds/Still_sleepless
Summary: San will run under starlit skies, propelled by want of an escape, shoes hitting asphalt, heart hitting ribs, but there's no bravery in running.OrSan tries to piece together his identity.





	1. come closer skater boy

San feels rather than sees and that makes all the difference.

Birds return home in droves once winter ends. It's the only comfort San has ever had, the one thing he found useful from third grade science.

Life is a mosaic of unfortunate instances viewed through the lense of youth. As a sophomore in the graduating class of 1983 San knows that the day Yunho walks into his home ec class is one of those instances.

"Sorry, I'm late. I was being given a tour."

Such bland words seem to be spun from silken gold coming out of pretty rosebud lips. It is these words which seal San's fate, these words which would come to grab at his neck and squeeze tight.

"I'm Jeong Yunho." His smile is careless as he surveys the room, taking in the people he'll spend the next two years with. The room is bathed in icy light from the early spring sky and he coughs into the worn sleeve of his hoodie.

More words are spoken but San doesn't hear them. He's silently anticipating the inevitable instruction from their ditsy teacher. There's an empty seat to his right and San itches to push it out of sight but stills himself instead.

"Yunho, you can take that seat and stay behind after class." The points at the only other empty seat at the front of the class and quickly resumes teaching. Yunho rushes to take his seat and chuckles at something his seatmate says.

San doesn't look up from his notebook for the remaining duration of class, empty seat at his side housing only his backpack.

* * *

> _The stars are in your eyes but only when I'm drunk._

* * *

San takes his first shot when he's sixteen going on seventeen at a party that, quite frankly, doesn't live up to the hype.

"Steady on, you've got a weak stomach remember?" Seonghwa interjects with his disparaging sensible voice despite the fact that he's had three shots with a fourth glass just out of reach.

"Oh, fuck off," is all San can muster as he leans back onto Wooyoung's steady arms. They're squashed together too close on a couch in some girl's lounge. The high of parties has never really hit San but he knows that this night will be the talk of the school for a solid two weeks.

"I don't know how your pessimistic ass manages to maintain any sort of reputation," comes Wooyoung's curious voice somewhere close to his ear and San resists the urge to elbow him. The shitty music choices have only served to make him grumpier than usual.

"Isn't it obvious? His ass is _exactly_ how he maintains his reputation."

Now San has no qualms about elbowing Seonghwa's gut and as he does just that there's a palpable change in the party's atmosphere. The house is quieter somehow, the general yelling has been switched out for a song change. One that has a lulling bass and a prominent vocal line. Wooyoung is moving before either Seonghwa or San can think and then the three of them are weaving through a crowd of drunken peers. They follow the sound and escape into a large, white echoing room that's inhabited by a group of people encircling someone.

It's Yunho. His jacket is half thrown off, pale shoulders exposed and that's all San can focus on even though there's so much more to take in. Yunho is dancing, stereo blasting music and everyone is watching enraptured. It's not dancing that's under the influence. His cheeks are flushed red and his hair is sticking to his forehead from the oppressive heat but his eyes are sharp and he looks alive. He looks like the only living thing in this sleepy town, like he doesn't belong.

Then the beat switches and he's all smiles, all glossy and graceful.

"Is that the new boy?" He hears spill from someone's mouth but he doesn't turn to find out who, eyes pinned before him. 

Others are joining in now as well, the crowd beginning to merge as Yunho winds down. Wooyoung rushes forward, pausing only to swivel and pull San towards him by his fingertips.

In the dim lighting of the all-white room, San sees Yunho step out towards the perimeter of the room and tug his jacket closer towards himself. He looks contemplative but this look disappears when a girl who's momentarily lit up by the twisting disco ball throws her arms around Yunho's neck and kisses him.

San's brain short circuits and when Wooyoung gains a proper grip and tugs him closer firmly, he loses sight of the both of them.

San dances to a stereo beat that hurts his teeth, arms around his waist.

At the end of the night he throws up into the bushes and ignores Seonghwa's smug _I told you so. _

* * *

San's eating by himself at lunch because his friends have decided to abandon him.

And okay, maybe that might be putting a dramatic spin on things but San is feeling pretty dramatic at the moment.

He was just going about his day, coming out of poli-sci, feeling ravenous, only to see his friends sitting with Jeong Yunho. So, he quickly crashed at the closest table and began eating his fries in solitary discomfort with his head close to the table to avoid being spotted.

Discreetly attempting to see whether he's been spotted, San furtively lifts his head from the table. Yunho isn't facing him which is a blessing but Seonghwa makes eye contact and San knows he's fucked. Seonghwa nudges Wooyoung and alerts him to the fact that San is seemingly become one with the table. Then they're both staring and what entails is a complicated form of communication in which San essentially manages to convey the words "stop fucking staring."

They both _stop fucking staring_ but only because their communication is rudely interrupted by newcomers in the form of theatre kids, Kang Yeosang and Kim Sunhwa.

San doesn't miss the chaste kiss Sunhwa delivers to Yunho before sitting down.

He spends the rest of lunch slumped over before his friends eventually feel, well deserved, guilt and join him. They all slump together.

  
San is deadly grateful for his friends. Most of the time.

* * *

  
In the year which China's population reaches a staggering one billion and Nintendo releases Mario Bros. San realises he's failing drama and scrambles for a solution before his parents decide to find one for him.

It's Wooyoung who comes up with the idea when he has the one light-bulb moment of his life, which he was long overdue anyways. "Sing," he says simply as if the one word says everything. It doesn't. The ensuing silence prompts him to continue, "the school play sign-ups are happening. You're rewarded extra credits for participating. Join with me?"

"Okay." San pretends not to see the surprise painted across Wooyoung's face, one eyebrow arched. He looks back to the textbook in between them and continues making notes, mind far away from equations and thinking about vocals exercises to loosen his cords.

San misses everything of importance, looking in the wrong places for the right things.

* * *

  
The lead-up to auditioning isn't as stressful as you would expect. San chooses to try for a vocal part. He knows he can't hold a candle to performers ike Wooyoung, more likely to giggle than appropriately deliver lines. It's only for the extra credit.

The number of the students in the auditorium is relatively large, 30 students milling about under the bright overhead lights. They're waiting for latecomers and Wooyoung is doing eccentric vocal trills much to San's displeasure. Before he can voice his discontent his words are stopped by the sound of the heavy entrance doors swinging shut.

"Finally, we can begin," the drama teacher exclaims with much fanfare and the lights dim, "don't make being late a habit Yunho." San wonders if the earth can open up and swallow him whole. _Luck isn't real_. That's all that he can think in abject despair. How he can put so much effort into avoiding Yunho and then still see him at every turn is baffling. Home economics turns into a difficult game of twister every time a group project is announced and he rushes to orchestrate classmates into suitable positions that place him as far from Yunho as possible.

There's no way to run now, his name already on the list. So, San grabs Wooyoung's hand to pre-emptively stop him from calling Yunho over and then collapses in his seat. Wooyoung is inadvertently pulled down with him. "Mind explaining what this is?" Wooyoung asks in a vaguely mocking tone, holding up their linked hands before his face like they're an interesting display.

"Damage control." He offers blankly, watching ahead and trying to pay attention to the instructions being read out.

Wooyoung scoffs, blowing out a breath obnoxiously. "Sounds like an excuse to hold hands." San splutters in surprise, looking back whilst rapidly thinking of witty rebuke. "All you had to do was ask." Any chance of a witty retort dissolves and San settles for pouting as Wooyoung laughs silently, his shoulders shaking with the effort of escaping their teachers hawk eyes.

"Jung Wooyoung," a bellowing voice echoes out to them, "it's so kind of you to volunteer yourself. Come on stage and show off your acting chops."

Wooyoung's laughter stops immediately and San can see him resisting the urge roll his eyes. Instead he bends down to unzip his bag and grab his script, pulling his hand out of San's grasp. As he does he speaks loudly, voice dripping with barely concealed fervour from stage fever.

"Aren't you going to tell me to break a leg?"

San just stares back at him, unmoving and Wooyoung exhales an exaggeratedly disappointed sigh before making his way down the stairs towards the stage.

"I can break one for you." It's a delayed answer but one that San feels immensely pleased by and Wooyoung pauses for a moment to squint at him, mouth quirked up slightly despite the threat. Then he crosses from the dark into white-out light as he steps onto the stage.

Almost instantly, Wooyoung dissolves into his character, words hardening as they escape into the air.

  
Neither of them notice the pair of eyes that had passed back and forth between them.

* * *

  
Bursting into the class with excessive force, Seonghwa makes for an alarming visage. Something primal takes a hold then, it climbs into San's throat and steals his breath. All this eases the moment that Seonghwa spots him and he breaks out into a deadly grin. Instead of supplying any sort of explanation for his hurry, Seonghwa simply gestures for San to follow him and they wind through the hallways to where a small group of people are chattering.

Wooyoung is there as well, looking troubled, in front of the school bulletin board. His smile disappears as soon as Seonghwa and San reach his side, fading like the summer rain and leaving something radiant behind in it's absence. "San! You got a part! A big part!" He says so loudly that San takes a long second to process the meaning of his excitement. Seonghwa helps him out by pointing at a sheet pinned in front of them. A list of names have been assigned to characters belong to different acts. Below this is a smaller section which contains San's name and the scenes which he'll be in chorus for. 

"Wow. That's a lot of singing." It's all he can really come up with, sounding decidedly indifferent with the outcome.

Seonghwa blows out a breath and roughly pats his head, causing San to shrink away slightly to protect his precious hair. "You can show that you're happy. I'm proud of you." This breaks through to the part of San that doesn't normally show. He grins, dimples deepening as Seonghwa throws one arm around him and one around Wooyoung. He _is_ happy because a small part of him had secretly doubted whether he'd be considered good enough. Now the darkness of his mind is silent with both friends by his side.

"I'm proud of me too, don't get it twisted. I expected nothing less," he says with over the top bravado. Seonghwa twists San's ear for his overbearing narcissism which granted, he probably deserves. Wooyoung's twinkling laughter reminds him to look back at the cast sheet and after a quick search he finds Wooyoung's character and scene, Act Three. Realisation dawns on him that Wooyoung shares a scene with him which fills him with elation and he jumps giddily, Seonghwa's arm slipping off of his shoulder. "Wooyoung, I sing in your scene!" 

He expects mutual enthusiasm but one glance shows Wooyoung smiling through a pained expression. San stops hopping about which doesn't go unnoticed. "It's not what I auditioned for." Wooyoung explains, shifting on the balls of his feet; the hallway thins out a bit as the bell rings. They have a free period so San doesn't feel rushed. He does, however, feel confused. 

"This is an even bigger part, though. You're a great actor! You can do it. I know you can." He tries to sound reassuring but by the looks of it he's failing. Seonghwa clears his throat from between them and directs them back to the sheet. 

"I'm disappointed. Has nobody noticed _my_ name? I'm a stage-hand!" Both Wooyoung and San snort at that, scrambling closer to see where Seonghwa is pointing towards. His laughter dies in his throat as his eyes scan over a specific name. Jung Yunho in Act Three. 

* * *

Skateboarding has never been San's thing. He's not as graceful as Wooyoung nor as long-legged as Seonghwa but he skates regardless. He enjoys gliding across rough concrete and savours the inevitable falls that come when he allows his mind to wonder too far.

It's dark and the skatepark is empty but San was craving the refreshing cut of the night air against his face and in his lungs.

He's surprised when he's pulled off his board and squeals. Years of his parents nagging stranger danger flood his senses and he loses his footing, tumbling forward still squealing until he's pushed back flat onto his feet and steadied. This happens to the soundtrack of vindictive laughter. Familiar laughter, San realises. He squeals again, punching his assailant square in the stomach which does embarrassingly little damage but still feels cathartic. At least, until his arms are restrained. "It's me!" Comes an amused floating voice from right in front of his face. 

"I know, you dickhead." San is rightfully irritated, sounding breathless from the shot of unnecessary adrenaline. His wrists are still being squeezed together and he groans, tugging them away effort. "You scared me", he admits while letting go of his pride. 

"No shit. You screamed like you were being murdered and then tried to hurt me", even in the dark San can sense how broad Wooyoung's smile is and he wonders why they're friends. 

"Okay, thank you for that. Now please excuse me as I leave you." Reaching down for his board, San grabs at thin air and then curses his poor vision. He hears the sound of rolling wheels and realises Wooyoung has jumped on his board. Great. 

He expects Wooyoung to further torture him by leaving him behind but he doesn't move and the air is unbearably still. The moon has taken cover behind a multitude of greyed out clouds which encases them as mere shadows. The silhouette that is Wooyoung could be anyone. They could both be anyone and this devastating epiphany rocks him to his core. He feels smaller than he's felt in a long time, like he's afloat at sea without an anchor or a sail. To be alive is to be uncertain. "Get on then." He's startled out of the incoming spiral by this instruction and raises his head to try and ascertain Wooyoung's expression. It's a fruitless endeavour and he can feel impatience in the way Wooyoung is fidgeting. Quickly, he steps onto the board and kicks off the ground hard, one hand clinging to the fleece inset of Wooyoung's hood.

They move slowly, unsurprisingly, seeing as the skateboard was not made for multiple people. But it's okay, because there's no need for anything else. Despite San's existential fears there's no reason for them to be anything more than they are. Wooyoung smells of soap and cedar. The scents clings to his skin and San absent-mindedly watches a darkened droplet of water fall from Wooyoung's damp hair before burrowing his face into the warmth of his back. He lets Wooyoung carry them away, legs working in smooth bursts across each crevice and bump in the concrete.

"How did you know I'd be here?" He asks, voice muffled but still decipherable as his cheeks endure the scratch of rough wool.

"I called your house and your dad said you weren't in. Seonghwa is at a family function so I knew you weren't with him", Wooyoung is speaking quietly, almost as if he's afraid to wake up the nightlife hidden away in the park. His back flexes under San's fingertips, voice rumbling deep and throaty like a car reaching the end of an arduous journey. "We're your only friends so you had to be here." The remark should hurt. It should pierce and burn and catalyse San pushing him away but it causes him to burrow deeper, ears ice cold and only getting colder the longer the night stretches out.

"I have other friends", he mumbles plaintively, the countless people vying for his attention during school act as his proof. He feels the glide of the air lessen and Wooyoung brings them to a stop.

"Not friends like us", there's a smile there, San can tell even without looking and Wooyoung is so matter-of-fact that he accepts it as the truth. Not that he would ever have argued anyways. He knows his limits and Wooyoung is one of those limits. He's hesitant to move despite the fact that they've come to a standstill, arms wrapped around his waist loosely, and he shivers like he's coming down with a fever. 

It's only when Wooyoung heaves out a shuddering breath that San finally lifts his gaze and peeks over his shoulder. He drops his arms and circles around, steps promoting Wooyoung to speak. "I needed you. I'm worried about tomorrow." 

Stars burn because they're dying. They give off light that seems so hopeful when really it's a last attempt at finding meaning, one final wish before burning to cinders and ash. Right now, with Wooyoung vulnerable under the sparse spotlight of the emerging moon San doesn't think he's a star. He's the whole damn sun. Somehow that makes this all worse. 

"You have nothing to be worried about. It's only the first rehearsal and you're more than capable of doing well." Wooyoung only stares at him like he's dense. San wonders what he's said wrong. Wooyoung turns and walks away, shoes clicking while the parted clouds illuminate his silvery hair. 

He's more metallic than he is flesh. San narrows his eyes, caught on how poised Wooyoung is even as he drapes himself against a bench. 

"Have you been practicing?" 

"What?" San says, confused and wondering whether he should also take a seat and continue comforting Wooyoung. 

"Have you been practicing for the play?" There's a note of condescension there that San resents even if he knows he is being a bit slower than usual today, stiff joints reminding him that a soft bed is sorely needed. 

San drops where he's standing to the ground and crosses his legs, attentively watching Wooyoung who in return shrugs. "Yeah, of course I have." 

"Sing for me then." It's bizarre sometimes what San finds funny and he can't help being struck by a case of the giggles from the request. It's nearing midnight on a school night and Wooyoung is asking him to sing in an empty skatepark. 

But he supposes stranger things have happened. 

"Okay."

Songbirds come in many different forms. Tonight San takes flight and he doesn't come down until the last note is swept clean. (Wooyoung is there too, not flying but dancing upon uneven gravel).

The moon hides again when they choose to go home and the night is dark once more. 


	2. pressed down

"Theatre is where the soul comes to die." Mr Song is solemn as he clicks through a slideshow on their production. "But through your performances these souls are revived!" He exclaims, jolting awake the people who had been on the cusp of sleep. "Almost, Maine is perfect for this. It's the defining art piece of our generation and I expect everyone to dedicate 100% and nothing less. Split up into your acts and discuss how you'll best be able to deliver the concept of "Almost, Maine".

Awkward is what San would call this ambience. Except awkward isn't strong enough of a word. He now seeks death to offer a gentle reprieve from this uncomfortable silence, eyes glancing uncertainly over booklets of scripts.

The musty scent of the old drama studio only adds to the weight of the atmosphere, walls painted black to portray a sense of seriousness but only harkening to doom and despair. San can almost see the dead spirits hovering above them when he squints. 

San isn't surprised that he's turned mute in Yunho's presence given his proclivity for avoiding his the past four months since Yunho first transferred. This doesn't give Wooyoung an excuse, seeing as how he's seen them both eat lunch together while chatting along like best buds.

If silence was capable of killing then they'd all be dead, gunshots to the brain point-blank.

It's due to this morbid train of thought that San can only blurt out: "Hope you have better chemistry onstage than you do now." He then proceeds to erupt into high pitched, anxious giggles which gradually peter out when no one else joins in. By the time he gives out one final pitiful giggle, Wooyoung has been glaring for so long he half expects to glance down and realise that he's on fire, burning up from the threat of a near-future beating.

He's not on fire but Yunho's pointed stare makes his cheeks glow regardless. 

"I didn't realise you could talk", Yunho says nonchalantly, still staring at San, eyes like endless tunnels prying apart the walls that keep his thoughts at bay. His tone is filled with mirth that shakes the cells in San's bones. It leaves embarrassment in it's wake.

"I talk to the people I like", San says, surprising even himself. Wooyoung looks baffled, eyes widening before he laughs, loud and happy.

"Ah. I guess I don't come under that category, seeing as how you've avoided me." He says, smoothly. His eyes crinkle when he smiles, San notes. "It's a shame, though," he continues, "because I like you." He punctuates the sentence with a head tilt that makes San feel elated and abhorrent all at once.

There's a certain fragility to who San is. It lives in the moments where he forgets to breathe, the time between one breath and the next sweeping in like the tide underneath a full moon.

The anxiety he feels when oxygen finally hits his lungs puts him into full throttle. These fragile moments are punctured by his own decay. San knows this. And Wooyoung, even through the overwhelming (and unexplained) irritation, knows this too.

And so this is how it goes: San falters, words overlapping in ways that words shouldn't and Wooyoung stares, measuring up the water that runs through their veins. Then he holds San's hand in one callused palm under the table and turns a page of the script with the other hand above the table. He coughs, once, twice and finally speaks.

"Let's just get on with the script reading, yeah? I have things to do," before he launches into the first line. Yunho's gaze lingers, as if seeing through the harshness of Wooyoung's words to something softer, somewhere deeper. Wooyoung stares back, mouth still spilling out words that San can't listen to, he looks like he's challenging Yunho to something but the meaning is lost before it can reach San.

He's stuck in the middle, hand in hand with Wooyoung.

Something isn't quite right, Wooyoung is reading not just his own lines but Yunho's. San scrunched his nose in confusion and listens to the lightening pace at which Wooyoung is reading.

Yunho opens his mouth for the first time and cuts him off. The other people in the studio are now just background noise. San's brought to rapt attention. Yunho speaks, words flowing in casual arches. "I mean, why do I wanna be spend my Fridays going on dates with girls, when I could be spending them with someone I know I like, like _you_ Randy, you know?" He's steady, script not even needed as he recites the dialogue.

"Yeah." Wooyoung says, impossibly quiet, so that it takes a second for San to realise that he's still in character. Under the table, Wooyoung's hand is slipping, fingers loosening before letting go altogether.

"I mean that was rough tonight. When Sally was telling me how she didn't like the way I smell," Yunho's emphatic, speech now staccato and running like a river in the rain. He's still staring at Wooyoung but his hands that are on the tabletop are now openly flexing, gripping something invisible and beyond sight. "I realised that there's not much that makes me feel good or makes sense," it's a rush now, so much so that they don't realise the room has gone silent, "but then I stopped being sad. Because I remembered that there is something that _does_ make me feel good and that _does_ make sense. And it's _you_."

San feels like he'll be sick.

"Chad...I think I'll head out." Wooyoung says, before blinking and breaking eye contact. He got the line wrong, San notes, but before he can say anything the room erupts in applause. Mr Song claps a brusque hand against Yunho's back, who's smiling breezily.

"Yunho, that was perfect. Your enthusiasm for the role is clear to see. And Wooyoung!" Wooyoung lifts his head and winces, "The back and forth between Randy and Chad is exquisite. You nailed Randy's discomfort well." He says a few more words before glancing at the clock. "Pack up guys! I'll inform you of our next meeting soon. In the meanwhile please continue practicing".

And like that, the class disperses, leaving San feeling displaced. A thought has sprung up that just won't let go.

"C'mon, sunshine. Let's go." Wooyoung sounds like he's underwater, waterlogged and distant. Or maybe, San is the one who's underwater. San can't reach him. Not really.

But he smiles and pretends he can. "Yeah, let's go". He spares Yunho a glance who's stopped to discuss something with Mr Song at the front of the class.

Then they leave, Wooyoung leading the way and laughing easily at his own jokes. San wants to talk about the play but can't bring himself to speak.

He's missing something vital. Can you tell what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost, Maine is a real play. The dialogue lines that are in this fic (that Yunho and Wooyoung speak) are adapted from the play. Hope you enjoyed!


	3. in tacet

A tepid complacency has slipped through San's skin and into the marrow of his bones. He thinks that this is what purgatory must be, stuck between the choices of idiot academia and forlorn infatuation. No salve can tend to these damages, a permanent mark of the unknown. San is living through an unknown and the tinder of his heart is burning from the inside-out. It's an uncomfortable experience, to have fire ravage your insides, and in the aftermath there is no smoke. There is simply the sharp, fresh taste of leaves, the sour ph of rain-bogged dirt left alive behind his eyes, an inexplicable sense of weeds growing manic between his ribs and pulling them out of place.

In pinks and reds, the sun rises, a new dawn to usher in words and memories that fade faster than the scent of summer after a flash flood. San has the startling realisation that the keys of his keyboard feel akin to a foreign entity beneath his practiced fingertips, like it can sense the unease gnawing at his vitals, and is rebelling as a consequence. Minor becomes major and major becomes an off-key, two octaves too high. The music doesn't come easy to him now, rough and choppy, a sonata forgotten by the paths of time. He sings, low timbre pouring out like honey on ice and it's difficult to force words out through the cold that sits besides him, not quite inside him.

San has discovered that fear is not an arbitrary condition. Fear is a warning, one that the universe shapes into it's own ballistic weapon and inserts into your mouth.

_Chew on this,_ says the universe. So you do, facing an explosion contained in your own head, but there's no changing the taste of what's already been eaten. Fear is a poison as well as a warning, a stop sign in a road with no exit, painted over in moss and the amber of blossoms that no longer mean anything. 

_Meaning? What is meaning?_

We don't _mean_ anything.

It's 1983 and the world is running at speeds that it might never reach again. War has been raging in the East since 1980 and San watches the news with an open mouth and a closed heart. Nobody knows when it will end but even when it does what would that mean? What is a loss and what is a victory at the cost of human life? John Lennon was shot dead in NYC at the beginning of the decade, an era of music ending amongst blood and resentment. Now, there's a computer that you can have in your home and Reagan is developing his own _star wars._

San wants it to slow down. He wants someone to reach out and say _it's too much right now but soon we'll have slowed down, we'll be swimming in the cascades and there will be no rain to soak you to your bones, to show you for what you truly are._

What a dream.

San takes the poison - and he does it gratefully - sorry hands painting a sorry image, one that will cross the moon and reach the end of time, still circulating but the image is only a blank page. One blank page to show us what humanity really means. A record of our vanity but not just our vanity -- our inability to make a dent on the place we call earth.

So, again, San takes the poison.

_Well done,_ says the universe, a winking mass of emptiness, bright and dark, all at once, and San smiles, like he'll die smiling, like he was born to throw himself into the boundless depths of the dark and smile whilst doing it because blossoms don't have meaning but neither does he. Is this really a personality? To be struck by the need to change? 

Humans are fragile beings. They are composed of anxieties stacked atop arrogance which are balanced delicately atop desires and they're called humans, called personality. 

It's no surprise that escape is so often sought after. 

San will run under starlit skies, propelled by want of an escape, shoes hitting asphalt, heart hitting ribs, but there's no bravery in running. Not when what you're running from is welded to your back, nestled in your head, standing right in front of you, because he's ran miles but it's only been in a circle and San wonders when he'll have run far enough to meet himself, to collide in the centre of impossibilities.

The impossibility won't be San. The impossible is life. To live is the ultimate test and San feels like he's failing, like he's dying. 

This song that he's singing shouldn't feel like this - so heartbreaking - but San is singing and the words seem like his own; a story of being lost in an ocean and having to save yourself yet how can he save himself?

_And I can feel these bridges breaking._

_And I'm drifting further from you, from you._

These are the words that he will sing. San will have to stand on stage, staring down at Wooyoung and Yunho and wonder why these words - oh god, these words - ring so true. Why they ring so close to home, to the point where he can feel the doors shaking, the doorbell ringing and the television buzzing in the background. If he were to open the door, what would San find? An empty porch, or something more?

San dreams of running but here he is: alone in his bedroom, taking shallow breaths that still feel like they're lacking oxygen, more dust than air. The truth is San will never run but he'll never step forward either. He's frozen in a standstill.

Yunho plays across his thoughts like the music notes he's trying to study. And in the spaces between the chants of _Yunho, Yunho, Yunho,_ there are intermittent scenes of _Wooyoung_ that force themselves into the tacet spaces in his mind.

If this was a story, then San would be hard-pressed to decipher the meaning. Instead he's left deeply troubled by the state of his own psyche.


End file.
